


Fractal Perspectives

by SoaringJe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Post-Canon, don't expect speedy updates, draco and hermione are bros, eventually Cissamione, probably slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2019-09-15 11:03:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16932078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoaringJe/pseuds/SoaringJe
Summary: What must it be like, to be surrounded by your peers and kinsmen, to hear only their interpretation, to know only one side of a story...What must it be like, if that changed...





	1. it begins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Menzosarres](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menzosarres/gifts).



“Miss Granger.” Hermione looked up from her desk, her pen spinning idly in her hand.

“Oh,” she began, eyes darting to the clock, “is it time for the mail already, Oliver?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

He smiled, and with a nod of his head, began to carefully maneuver towards her desk. The task was already a bit difficult due to the sheer number of documents and notes within her office, but Oliver had the added challenge of having to peer over the box in his arms.

Hermione directed him to place it at a spot that had _just_ enough space. “These are all the records I requested?” Finicky and old, it was recommended for records such as these to have no spell cast upon them, thus, Oliver and the rest of the Ministry’s couriers. Hermione supposed it was an additional layer of security, but it should not have been a _fortuitous byproduct._ Too many people used spells, or a combination thereof, that they did not know enough about. She tapped her pen against her desk. 

_Though was it any_ wonder _when our own government body is one of the biggest offenders?_ she thought.

Oliver dropped the box carefully, “and one more thing,” slipping his hands free, an envelope lay in his palm.

She eyed it curiously. “Usually the owls handle that.” There was a click of metal against wood as she placed her pen down.

“Malfoy saw me when I was en route and asked if I could take it; he seemed busy.” Oliver shrugged and handed it over.

Hermione hid a smile, turning the envelope over in her hands. People were _finally_ getting over their ridiculous prejudices and treating Draco like an actual coworker. 

The Malfoys had been understandably penalised after the war: Lucius was stripped of most of his power and effectively confined to his house save for a few exceptions, and Draco was all-but barred from working in any high-end Ministry job. Combined with how daft everyone was acting, he could get no job at all. Hermione refused to let that stand; it wasn’t right, and Draco...what began to take root in their 8th year of Hogwarts _bloomed,_ and he became the friend she never knew she needed.

 _Hermione,_ was scrawled on the front of the envelope. Brushing her fingers over the familiar script, she felt a resonance of magic from which she discerned three things: Draco sent it, he was not in distress, and he was mildly-dehydrated. 

It was a skill she had been working on. 

After the mail she had gotten because of Rita Skeeter’s articles, Hermione personally screened every piece of mail she received. Draco was one of the only ones who understood her— _it’s not paranoia, Ronald_ —caution. In fact, she had learned of this particular method from him, having previously used a plethora of charms, when...

 _”Why don’t you just do this?”_ he had asked her at the time. It was not long after he had begun working as what was basically her personal assistant. Thankfully, he had since gotten a promotion such that she was no longer his direct superior: _that_ had put a then-surprising strain on their growing friendship.

But back to those early days: he had demonstrated, at her behest and his inability to explain, how someone could imbue their magic into ink and then have it read. He had read five things.

 _“That’s amazing, Draco!”_ His pale skin had suffused with pink.

 _“It’s nothing; my mother can read a lot more than that,”_ he demurred, and Hermione wondered at how he had grown from the pompous brat she knew and hated back in their youth. _How we have changed…_

While she didn’t miss his arrogance...“That’s still an accomplishment, Draco.” This was not healthy either. _“You can be proud of what you have accomplished_ and _still acknowledge you have room to grow.”_

“Well, that’s all for me, Miss Granger,” cut through her reminiscing. Hermione looked back up, thanking Oliver and bidding him farewell. She received an, “it was no problem, miss. Have a nice day.”

She looked back down at the envelope in her hands, slipping a letter opener free from the holder on her desk. Opening the letter and holding a heavy sheet of proper stationery— _my mum wouldn’t let me use anything else_ —Hermione was struck by how bizarre her life was. Five years ago, she would have had an easier time believing one of Trelawney’s absurd predictions rather than her reality; yet here she was, dear friends with Draco Malfoy and—

Her brain short-circuited, eyes going back over what she had just read. Once. Twice. Three times. The letters and words on the parchment remained stubbornly the same.

_“Could you take my mother holiday shopping? She asked for your help and…”_

What.

* * *

“Miss Granger.” Hermione shut her book, swallowing a sigh and pasting on a smile.

“Madam Malfoy,” she greeted politely. The pureblood matriarch was resplendent in black and silver winter robes, her pale hair pristine in the light.

A frown tugged at Hermione’s lips. “That won’t do at all,” Hermione said, putting her book in her bag and drawing her wand.

Blue eyes flashed at the motion, narrowing the slightest bit. Hermione slowed.

“May I transfigure your robes, Madam Malfoy?” 

All Hermione received was a curt nod. She stifled her frustration with a reminder that this was Draco’s mum and she _had_ to deal with her in some capacity. _So suck it up, Granger._

She sighed internally, and, as Madam Malfoy’s clothes shifted to comply with muggle fashion, reminded herself why she was here. 

After she had gotten over her shock, not so much at the fact that his mother would want to celebrate it with him—after the war, only a fool would doubt what Narcissa Malfoy would do for her son—but that Draco would embrace his friend’s muggle traditions so much that it would _warrant_ her to do so...how could Hermione possibly deny them her assistance?

She checked over her transfiguration work as snow fell gently around them, and was hit upside the head with an answer to what she had considered a rhetorical question: Narcissa, standing tall and unflinching as Hermione lowered her wand, was one of the Black sisters—Madam Malfoy’s proud chin lifting under her scrutiny—and thus rather beautiful.

Hermione flushed. The weather was getting to her. “Shall we?” Her voice was several octaves too high. Narcissa began to incline her head, and Hermione turned around, “great!” 

Her blush could be attributed to the chilly air nipping at her nose and cheeks, but it took a few minutes for her heart rate to slow to a reasonable pace. _Keep it together._ Hermione could admit she was feeling a bit lonely, having called off her relationship with Ron and suffering through a string of failed first dates since—but that was no excuse to lose her composure over Narcissa bloody Malfoy!

Hermione huffed and, as it was a less-populated street, chanced a glance backwards. Madam Malfoy was just-too-far-away. Thinking back, she had also previously _stopped_ too-far-away. _Of course,_ Hermione thought, _heaven forbid she stand too close to the muggleborn._ She blinked as the wind blew snowflakes in her face. Turning around, _Draco better not blame me if she gets lost._ A thought which sent her mind swirling down what to get Draco, and everyone else she had to buy gifts for, as well as where to take the esteemed Malfoy matriarch. Of course, Hermione had already planned it out, but it wouldn’t hurt to re-examine those plans...

Thusly lost in thought, Hermione got all the way to the brick wall separating Diagon Alley from the muggle world before asking, “Do you mind walking the rest of the way or did you want to side-along apparate directly to the shopping district?”

Hermione turned around, forgetting to check beforehand that Narcissa was close enough to hear her. 

Her breath caught, carrying with it the scent of citrus and roses. The wind brushed blonde hair against her cheeks. Snowflakes melted against her skin as Narcissa leaned over. There was a tap of wood against brick. Hermione dimly registered the sound of bricks rearranging themselves; she heard her blood and too-short breaths far more clearly. 

Narcissa stepped back. 

“Shall we?” the matriarch’s face was unphased, voice impassive. Hermione’s cheeks burned; she didn’t trust her voice.

Hermione turned around and stepped through, hurrying perhaps too fast. She stopped, took a breath, and turned around to wait for Madam Malfoy. It wasn’t hard to find her crown of platinum hair. With her shoulders back and head held high, she glided through the crowd like royalty had come to visit.

Hermione reminded herself to _breathe._

The shopping trip was surprisingly uneventful if Hermione didn’t read the price tags. She was lulled into letting the gap between them grow, as the matriarch was never hurried, and never seemed to have difficulty finding Hermione on the instances they had split up in stores to be more efficient. That was until—

There was an “oof” and a thud, and Hermione surfaced from her perusal of her shopping bags and mental cataloguing of gifts. There was a little boy, his hands and knees on the cold ground. He looked like he was about to cry as he shakily rocked back on to his bum. Patches of his palms were red as he sat, cradling his hands close to his chest. Madam Malfoy stood over him. _Did he just—_ Hermione hurried closer.

She could only watch as Narcissa knelt, practiced and graceful even in muggle clothing. Hermione didn’t quite catch her words, but from what she _could_ hear…

Soft like the falling snow and bright like the light they caught, Narcissa’s voice was a soothing balm. The little boy’s eyes dried, a smile finding its way onto a face streaked with tears just as Hermione and presumably the boy's mother made their way to them.

“I am _so_ sorry—Phillip, what did I _tell_ you—I looked away for _one second,_ I swear—”

Madam Malfoy’s eyes were just a little colder. “It’s fine,” her voice too, “please, don’t let us keep you from your shopping.” The mother continued to pratter on, carefully latching onto the boy’s wrist, and only then did Narcissa’s keen eyes leave them.

They walked away. “Thank you, ma’am!” called the boy from over his shoulder. The wind carried snippets of his mother lecturing him.

Hermione stepped closer as they walked. “You’re good with children.”

Narcissa’s eyes flicked towards her. An eyebrow raised. 

Hermione blanched. Oh no, she hadn’t meant it like _that._ Getting to know Draco, hearing him talk about his family, she _knew_ Narcissa was a good mother; a _great_ mother, honestly, even if she spoiled Draco rotten.

“I just meant—I know you’re good with Draco, and—” This was _not_ making it better. “I just—didn’t think you’d be good with muggle children.” _Shit._ She wasn’t supposed to say that.

Narcissa stepped off into an alcove and stopped.

“Would you mind if I took precautions for our privacy, Miss Granger?” she asked, blue eyes meeting brown.

Well, they _were_ in the middle of a muggle city. “Of course not,” she answered. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Narcissa’s eyes tightened almost imperceptibly as her wand slipped free from her sleeve. “I do not believe that will be necessary,” she stated, pale fingers wrapped around her auburn wand.

Had she misspoken? Draco had been a godsend for the more obscure wizarding etiquette, even if he never really practiced them in school, but he could only teach her so much.

Her concerns died on her tongue as Madam Malfoy’s wand flicked, spun, and twisted, spell after spell shooting off into the winter air. _Notice-Me-Not, Muffliato, proximity-detection charms…_ Hermione couldn’t keep up.

Narcissa’s hand stilled, and her spells had just settled around them when, “Did you notice the distance I kept between us in Diagon Alley?” Madam Malfoy idly began shrinking and levitating her shopping bags.

Hermione flushed, caught out. “I—” what could she say? She set her jaw and met blue eyes as Narcissa glanced back up. “Yes.”

Narcissa was quiet for a moment, then, “When people see a pureblood near one of the Golden Trio, they are not quick to assume well of the pureblood.” Her wand disappeared back up her sleeve. “You are too precious to them.” And then, less matter-of-factly, “I was hoping for a rather uneventful trip as I still need to complete my preparations for Yule.” She stood there, holding one shopping bag where there used to be four, and waited.

That first part...Hermione couldn’t unpack it right now, but, “Yule?” she asked. “As in the Yule Ball?”

Narcissa’s eyes tightened slightly. “They are related, yes. Yule is the traditional celebration the magical community holds during winter.” Hermione couldn’t put her finger on it, but Narcissa seemed...sad: her blue eyes distant, focused on sights she had once seen.

“It was one of the biggest celebrations of the year, a time when magical families came together and celebrated _being_ a community, with baskets of birch boughs, holly and ivy everywhere the eye could see, the warmth of fires, the scent of clove-spiked apples and oranges, and the _laughter_...” Hearing her speak of this, it sounded brilliant, but...

Hermione wracked her brain, and a realization hushed her. “I have never heard about this.” 

“There was a push to ensure every Hogwarts student did.” Blue eyes dropped down. “Their efforts culminated in a proposal for a Hogwarts course, similar to Muggle Studies but with a greater focus on wizarding culture; Yule was part of that proposed curriculum.” She brushed some snow off her sleeve. “The proposal also included either expanding the Muggle Studies’ curriculum or creating a separate class for muggle culture.

“Neither were approved.”

“Why the bloody hell not?!” Hermione hadn’t realize until then how much Hogwarts _needed_ that and they—

Narcissa looked back up, a finger tapping on the handle of her remaining shopping bag. “Our cultures were not deemed integral to our children’s education.”

Her blood warmed with outrage. “That’s not _right!”_ Narcissa stilled at her outburst. Hermione’s chest heaved, tight with rage. Blue eyes ensnared her, and Hermione got the peculiar feeling that she was being tested. Weighed. Evaluated. 

Silence hung in the air, and then—

“What did you think we were fighting for?” she said, words precisely pronounced with her voice soft and eyes ice.

Hermione was struck; it took a conscious effort to not just _gape._ She—she fell silent. How could she tell this woman—the mother of her friend, the sister of her torturer—that she had thought them _all_ indoctrinated, ignorant, privileged bigots? 

Narcissa’s eyes chilled her soul.

Perhaps, Hermione realized, she didn’t have to.

And she _still_ asked her for help?

* * *

The next day, Draco burst into her office pale and panicked.

Hermione stood from her desk, grasping instinctively for her wand. “Draco? What is—”

The door slammed behind him. “Hermione, what did you do?”

She lowered her wand. “ _Excuse_ me?”

“Mother’s invited you to join us for dinner.” 

Her wand clattered to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Began as a 20-minute "very Cissamione Christmas" bit, which you can find on my [Snippets and Stuff](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16719969/chapters/39508153). 
> 
> also  
> purebloods did bad shit.  
> but also the purebloods in this universe, at least some of them, are worried about their culture dying out.
> 
> criticism and feedback, as on all of my works, are welcome
> 
>  
> 
> **edited the day after bc i be like that.**  
>  also some more edits on 2019Jun10.  
> may revisit the scene about the school thing bc i Still think i rushed it  
> 2019Aug13 some more edits


	2. step

“You’re lucky you have scrolls and files littering your floor.” 

Hermione sat, letting Draco fuss over her wand. She held her head in her hands. “What does that even _mean?”_

“You haven’t been renewing the cushioning charm on your wa—”

Her hands dropped to her lap. “Draco.” That wasn’t what she had been asking after and he _knew_ it.

He gulped. “Well, you weren’t,” Draco muttered.

She stood. “A pureblood matriarch, the last upstanding member of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, _your mother_ has invited me, a _muggleborn,_ to dinner, and you want to discuss proper _wandcare?!”_

It seems it was Hermione’s turn to panic. They functioned well like that.

“Well, you survived going shopping with her,” Draco tried. Well, yes, but her worldview hadn’t. 

Hermione must have simply stood there like an idiot in front of Madam Malfoy for at _least_ several seconds. 

She didn’t know.

She had lost all sense of time staring into blue eyes, her mind racing to reassemble far too much of what she had _thought_ she’d known.

She remembered blinking as a clump of snowflakes fell on her eyelashes.

 _“I believe I shall take my leave,”_ Madam Malfoy had said, the first words they exchanged in however long it was. Narcissa could have stupefied her. It probably would have been less humiliating.

Brightest witch of her age, and she was stunned stupid by something that she _really_ should have considered before. Yes, greed and prejudice are powerful motivators, but what did those prejudices even _entail?_ What did it mean to be _raised_ pureblood? It couldn’t possibly have just been magic, which they learned at Hogwarts, and looking down on muggleborns, which she learned at Hogwarts was _part_ of their culture.

The Statute of Secrecy had been fully implemented by the early 1690s: three centuries was more than enough time for segregated communities to develop their own cultures. Why had she not _considered_ that?

 _“Thank you for your assistance, Miss Granger.”_ Narcissa hesitated. _“I believe I have found a suitable gift for everyone.”_ Her bag swayed slightly as she shifted. _“Good day.”_

And with a soft _pop,_ she was gone.

Hermione had stood there for a time—long enough for Narcissa’s spells to dissipate and long enough for her brain to reboot.

Something about how Narcissa had left...that hesitation... 

Why _had_ the Malfoy monarch continued on their shopping trip? Hermione had noted the number of things she had bought, and if she _had_ found a “suitable gift for everyone” after the last store they’d entered, she could have left. 

Either Narcissa had lied and _hadn’t_ finished her shopping, or she had and was just…

 _Just what? Wanting to_ hang out _with you? Don’t be delusional, Granger._

Draco’s voice brought her back to the present. “And it’s only my mum.” 

_Only_ his mum, he says. 

Hermione shook her hand discreetly. 

Keen grey eyes caught the motion and softened, his voice gentling. “It’ll be fine, Hermione.”

She scoffed, cheeks heating up at being caught out. She was a Gryffindor for god’s sake; why was she so nervous? “Which is why you burst in here—”

“I needed time to process!” Draco protested.

But a part of Hermione’s mind lingered on a soothing lilt and how soft blue eyes must have been...

Hermione was grateful her cheeks were already pinked. “We don’t have time for this,” she said, to perhaps both Draco and her brain.

Draco raised an eyebrow, cocking his head slightly.

She spun her hand, palm facing down then up. “Tempus ostentus,” she said, breathing the spell across her palm. Flecks of magic materialized above her hand, dancing upon the wind of her words and coalescing into a time display in between them. And with a flick of her wrist, Draco’s eyes crossed trying to focus on the floating numbers as it zoomed towards his face, dispersing on contact. Draco awarded her antics with a frown.

Hermione somewhat stifled a smirk. She would _never_ be so silly to Harry and Ron, not like this. Well, perhaps Harry, but she would often be silly _with_ Harry to Draco much like Harry and Ron would to her. And Ron...definitely not. 

Ron had grown as a person since the War, she could admit that much. The War had changed them all. And as the Golden Trio, it seemed the world had a front row seat to it all. Ron lived for it; Harry suffered it as usual, and Hermione? She could’ve lived without being such a public figure, but alas. 

Unfortunately for the Golden Trio, Ron and Hermione’s breakup was headline news— _honestly, do they have_ nothing _else to talk about?_ —for far too long. 

During this debacle, Hermione devoted even _more_ of her time to work and almost felt like she was being smuggled between her apartment and office. And Ron? Well, he volunteered for an Auror assignment overseas. If Hermione was feeling uncharitable, she’d say Ron had run away. Again.

She swallowed a sigh.

Hermione loved Harry and Ron, really, but it was usually _her_ taking care of _them._

Her wand beeped in Draco’s hands. _15 minutes before the start of their work day._

The friendship Hermione had with Draco... 

He moved carefully, deliberately, ensuring her eyes had focused on him and _here_ before gently pushing her wand into her hands.

She could let _herself_ be taken care of.

He stepped back, giving her space. 

And now she had an inkling of where he’d gotten it from.

She curled her fingers around her wand, warmth shooting up her arm and anchoring her to the present. “We’ll talk about this over lunch.”

“Can’t,” Draco fiddled with his collar, “we’re meeting Ginny.”

“That’s _today?”_ It was rare when the Holyhead Harpies’ schedule synced up with the Ministry’s; they couldn’t _possibly_ cancel.

Draco nodded, straightening his cuffs.

“Oh, for—” Hermione started, exasperated. She marched over and spun him around. “ _Go,”_ she shooed him, wand swishing to open the door, “you look _fine.”_ He sputtered like a spritzed cat. “We’ll talk about this _sometime_ later.”

He smoothed the front of his robes down, clearing his throat. “And a good day to you too, Hermione.”

She rolled her eyes. “With _my_ schedule?”

He winced at the reminder; Hermione had ranted about this particular week to him already.

“Not _bloody_ likely.”

And so began their day.

Hermione’s predictions held true, and she was sucked into legalese and meetings and trying not to _throttle_ people. At any rate, her brain didn’t have the _time_ to wander and only really surfaced after a knock at her door.

Hermione looked up from her desk and blinked, picking up her wand and giving it a swish. The door swung open.

Draco stood outside, subtly tense in that way he gets during a difficult day. It seemed like they both needed this lunch, Hermione thought as she bustled about, getting ready to go.

Draco waited patiently, relaxing somewhat with Hermione near. 

She locked her office; and, as per their routine, Draco walked on her left.

He was peculiar about that, but she hadn’t put much thought into why. 

She hadn’t put much thought into a lot of things. 

But before _that,_ she looked around.

Hermione could admit she had a tendency to be _focused_ and perhaps not the most _aware_ of everything—usually she spent these walks to lunch in amiable silence with Draco, tension easing just by being around friends—but now she paid attention to the people around them, as discreetly as she could; she didn’t focus directly on them, using her peripherals and casual sweeps of the room instead.

Walking through the depths of the Ministry was heartening; everybody just went about their day. It was when they entered the Ministry main lobby and atrium that Hermione’s blood began to boil. God, people were so _blatant_ about it! They’d look at Hermione and then their eyes would shift left and they would tense or frown and some people even reached for their wand!

Harry was waiting for them at the booth that would send them up to the surface, greeting them as they neared. And she could have _sworn_ a few people _relaxed. This was ridiculous! _The War ended _years_ ago, and Draco had been just 17 years old and people—__

__“Comin’, Hermione?” Green and grey eyes peered at her._ _

__She shook her hand. This lunch was supposed to be _relaxing,_ so she crammed it all in a box for later and _breathed.__ _

__Stepping out into Diagon Alley with her boys, she let their words keep her in the present, not quite registering them now, but appreciating their voices nonetheless._ _

__Ginny’s voice cut through her fugue._ _

__“If it isn’t the Ministry Stooges!” the ginger crowed, already sat at their table. They were standing in the restaurant they often frequented for lunch._ _

__Hermione blinked. She really should have noticed the change in temperature when they entered. Draco sniffed at the nickname while Harry lit up like a Christmas tree. Harry and Ginny were so in love; Hermione was tempted to get checked for cavities. She thought it fondly, honestly. That and her parents had ended up enjoying their time in Australia. Perhaps she’d ask them the next time they visited._ _

__It certainly did _not_ bother her that they weren’t here for this holiday season._ _

__Draco’s hand brushed hers as Harry rounded the table and greeted Ginny with a kiss._ _

__She let Draco pull out her chair— _I_ know _you can do it yourself, but that doesn’t mean you_ have _to; let chivalry live, you lion_ —and he took the chance to mutter to her._ _

__“Why did you have to show that movie,” he groaned more than asked._ _

__Muggle Movie Night— _honestly, the ‘muggle’ is superfluous; it’s not like magicals_ have _movies!_ —was a regular activity of their friend group. She had already explained to him, to them all, that that night was dedicated to showing some muggle comedic films. And she _had_ to include the films she had been introduced to during a fortuitous meeting with a stranger._ _

___“Larry, Curly, and Moe,”_ the elderly man had called three foolish kids, laughing. She had sat next to him on the bus, her parents a seat ahead of them. She had no idea what he’d meant and the man was kind enough to explain. It was one of her favorite conversations with a stranger._ _

__She was just a child, but he didn’t _treat_ her like she was somehow less than him. _ _

__She could not begin to say how grateful she was for that. Looking back, it must have influenced what she grew to expect of the world._ _

__It was priceless. Even _if_ she ended up disappointed more often than not._ _

__“We needed a laugh,” she reminded Draco as he sat down beside her._ _

__He couldn’t dispute that._ _

__Draco and Ginny got on surprisingly well—and honestly the four of them had perhaps too much sass. But it was fun. It was safe._ _

__They all needed that._ _

__But leaving the restaurant—and the two love birds to catch up—a box in Hermione’s brain burst._ _

__Because she also needed answers._ _

__She twirled her wand, spells falling around them, and grey eyes flicked to her just the once before he seamlessly steered them to somewhere they could talk._ _

__They stopped._ _

__“Draco, after the war... have you ever been threatened?”_ _

__Grey eyes widened for a moment before relaxing. He tugged at his cuff. “Well, my father is a well-known Death Eater…”_ _

__He was avoiding._ _

__“For associating with me.”_ _

__Draco winced._ _

__Hermione glared._ _

__“Maybe once or twice.”_ _

__Her mouth dropped._ _

__“Potter put a stop—”_ _

__Betrayal flashed through her. “ _Harry_ knew about this?!”_ _

__Draco’s voice was a bit smaller. “Well we didn’t want to—”_ _

__“You didn’t think I _deserved_ to know the risks people took by associating with me?!” She was still holding her wand and sparks shot out of it._ _

__Grey eyes met hers, stricken. “We didn’t think about it like that.” He was her friend and he was sincere and he just _cared_ about her. And a part of her wished he _didn’t.__ _

__“No, you _didn’t_ think! _People_ don’t think—” Her voice choked. _She_ didn’t think and she hated it. She hated—_ _

__Warm arms wrapped around her. Draco was humming._ _

__The rumbling she could feel and the tune she could hear helped drown out her mind._ _

__

__She was crying._ _

__

__His humming petered out not long after her cries._ _

__“I’m sorry,” Draco murmured to her._ _

__She was too. Because she didn’t deserve this—she didn’t deserve to be called a hero or to be loved; she was just a—_ _

__“You’re _Hermione Granger,_ and you carry too much on your shoulders.” He said her name like she was precious and strong. “I’m sorry that we kept things from you to try and help.”_ _

__She clutched at his robes, ignoring the scars burning on her arm. Her voice was rough. “Just… _talk_ to me, please. I want to—” Her breaths shuddered in her chest. “We can’t _fix_ something we don’t _talk_ about.”_ _

__He breathed, and the proud pureblood bent. “I’ll do better,” he promised her._ _

__She breathed, and her hand shook. “I’ll let people help me more,” she swore in turn, knowing he had a point about her taking too much on by herself._ _

__They stood there for a time—two kids who had grown up too fast, whom the world had _tried_ to tear down and _failed,_ but sometimes they needed a reminder. Needed to stop and remember that that they’re more than their demons, flaws, and scars._ _

__They were still standing._ _

__Still breathing._ _

__

__“So, when would you like to discuss that family dinner?” Draco joked._ _

__Hermione whacked him._ _

__

__They would be just fine._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i honestly did not expect to write Hermione this...emotional. Also my first mental draft of this chapter had no Cissa at all and i felt bad about that.
> 
> i really like Draco and Hermione being bros. Like, Harry is still Hermione's bro too, but Draco...idk he's fun to write.
> 
> i'm also realizing i just am crap at writing more than 2k-word chapters. oh well.
> 
> (did i make it in time for your second wake-up, mom)
> 
> 2019Aug13 some edits


	3. know

“You didn’t _have_ to walk me home, you know,” Hermione told the two boys flanking her.

Harry simply smiled at her, verdant eyes crinkling behind his glasses. 

Draco sniffed and tilted his head just a tad, pointedly looking away from the Gryffindors. “So you’ve told us. Several times.”

Harry’s shoulders shook as he laughed.

Hermione lightly jostled the pureblood. Draco’s lips quirked just a tad, his smile fleetingly shown but nonetheless sincere for its brevity. It was precious like that, the glimpses he afforded them. 

Harry’s hand brushed her own. “We know, Hermione,” he said in that earnest way of his.

She blinked away the burn in her eyes as her heart swelled. “...Thanks.”

“Always,” the two chorused.

It was one of the few sentiments the boys could agree on.

How lucky was she to have found two brothers who would give her the world?

The musing thought passed, but the warmth in her heart carried her right to her apartment door.

She opened it with a swish of her wand.

“What the _hell,_ Hermione?” fell from Draco’s lips as they stood there in the hall, no one moving to step into her apartment.

Oh. She had forgotten about this.

It looked like a tornado had blown through: books and scrolls and notes and quills and emptied ink pots and discarded pens of various colors. She could _almost_ see her furniture.

“I thought you said your research had gone _well,”_ continued Draco.

Hermione crossed her arms defensively. “For my current work project? Yes.” 

“Then what is…” he nodded vaguely at the chaos within the doorway. Harry stepped forward to clear a path, carefully shifting materials such that their positions were relatively the same. The boy had lived through post-research Hermione areas before; he knew what he could do without incurring her wrath.

“A side project.”

Grey eyes looked at her. “It looks like something exploded.”

“A side project I’m passionate about.”

“Right,” deadpanned Draco, his eyes moving from hers to the innards of her apartment. Hermione looked back at the chaos and caught a glimpse of Harry’s upturned lips before he waded further into the...well, it was a mess. 

Hermione shifted her weight. She could almost feel Draco’s expectation as the silence dragged on. She didn’t particularly _want_ to explain that Draco’s mother had highlighted a potential _gaping chasm_ in her knowledge, and she had to discern how accurate the Malfoy matriarch’s words were, and potentially reframe how she interpreted an entire _community’s_ actions. It was all too conceivable to Hermione that she would miss something like what Madam Malfoy had alluded to—what with the whirlwind of chaos and danger that was their schooling, and the subsequent fame and brown-nosing they endured after the war, and the melding into the shadows that the traditional purebloods underwent. 

Yes, she could believe it was possible.

But it was more than just not wanting to vocalize the why. She had spent far too long on this project for the only fruits of her labor to be too many unanswered questions and evidence that was overwhelmingly inconclusive, and yet. She had nothing of substance to show for it. All that time invested, _in vain, and_ it had cut into the typical amount of time she allotted to prepare for her presentation.

 

Of course, no one at the bloody meeting had _noticed_ that she was not quite as well prepared as she _always_ was. Her lips twisted into a scowl. _Those old, pompous—_

“Uh, Hermione?” Harry interjected.

She watched red sparks _just_ miss some of the scrolls on the floor. Hermione loosened her white-knuckles hold on her wand, and Harry shifted the scrolls a _bit_ further away. She needed more sleep. That was far too many times her magic had flared accidentally.

She had to fill the silence. Move on. “You mentioned a date with Astoria?” She looked back just in time to catch Draco’s gaze shifting from behind her.

Her eyes narrowed at the boys’ conspiring. “Didn’t your mother teach you better than to let a woman wait?” she continued testily. And then cursed herself for bringing up that woman when the memory of citrus and roses flashed through her mind, tinting her cheeks pink.

Draco smirked at her, bringing her mind back from its hormone-addled wanderings. “That depends, did your mother teach you how to throw a punch?”

Hermione rolled her eyes even as her mouth twitched at the memory of how _satisfying_ it was to deck the then-asshole. She nudged the pureblood aside. “Bye, Draco.”

The exaggerated affront on his face made her lips curl into a smirk. And then she heard rustling from behind her. 

Harry stood in her little kitchenette. He was putting on the kettle. 

_He wants to talk._ The realization almost made her shoulders hunch. Did she have the energy for another heart to heart? But more importantly...looking at the chaos around her and how it was reflected in her thoughts...could she afford _not_ to?

It was Harry—the no-longer-a-boy turning to glance over his shoulder with an easy smile and caring eyes. Hermione couldn’t see how talking with him could possibly make it _worse._

She turned back around. And Draco looked far too smug, so she let her eyes gleam, a sweet smile on her lips before she slammed the door right in his face.

She heard him chortle through the door and then a _crack_ as he apparated away.

_Ass,_ she thought fondly. She hoped his date would go well. They had had a trying day, and hopefully Astoria could continue to make his burden lighter. 

The kettle whistled. Absurdly, her mind conjured up a train. But this, it was _not_ going to be a train wreck. It was just a conversation.

She breathed, still facing the door, and spun on her heel. Harry was waiting for her at the table, two cups steaming upon its surface. He sipped from one as she placed one foot in front of the other. He had made it easier, clearing a path and focusing his eyes upon his drink. Sometimes she wished it wasn’t so easy.

She swirled the tea after she had taken her seat, careful not to spill any, but restless. She took a sip, and then held the cup in both hands.

It was Harry who broke the silence.

“What is it, Hermione?”

She glanced up into green eyes, and then back down to the depths of her tea. “I don’t know what you mean.” _Liar._ She turned the cup in her hands.

“You’ve been…” Hermione looked back up, “off ever since I saw you this morning.” He waved a hand at their surroundings, “and all _this_ makes me think whatever it is happened earlier than this morning.” 

Hermione very pointedly did _not_ look around at the utter mess she had made of her apartment. Where to begin? 

She breathed. 

“Why did they fight?” 

Harry merely tilted his head. She knew why one side had fought: it was for their lives, but for _them…_

“Did they _all_ fight for greed and power?” 

His eyes lit, and then Harry took a sip of his tea, thinking.

“Some of them,” he answered. “Some of them were just bullies, or people who didn’t want to lose the luxuries they grew up with.” His eyes darkened. Harry had known too many like that at too young an age.

But she had already known that.

“Even the ones you testified for?” _Even her?_ Hermione hadn’t been there for that particular trial. She had submitted a written testimonial on the relevant parties but had, quite frankly, high-tailed it out of Britain to find her parents. By the time she had returned with her family situation, basically, sorted out, the trials had all ended. And it hadn’t _really_ been relevant to her, especially as she had her 8th year of schooling, and then befriending Draco, choosing to work at the Ministry, the added complications of being part of the Golden Trio...There just didn’t seem to be the _time._ But now she wanted—practically _burned_ with the desire—to know.

Harry peered at her, then. Green eyes behind clear lenses, and she could almost believe he could hear her thoughts, but no. He barely mustered a _semblance_ of Occlumency after his Auror training. The mind arts was not one of his talents. “Some of them did it for their families.” _Family…_ a soothing voice to dry the tears of a child. She could believe that.

“But what was it about muggleborns that threatened their families?” Or were they just another instance of scapegoats in humanity’s cruel history.

“Their way of life…?” Harry’s nose scrunched. Even he was dissatisfied with that answer. 

“What _is_ the pureblood way of life? Tom grew up in a muggle orphanage and was able to pass as one in his adulthood.”

“I—”

“And where did you _learn_ about pureblood culture, rather than just seeing how Slytherins act?”

She read it on his face: the Weasleys. 

“You learned about purebloods from purebloods.” It held even for her, but with the addition of Draco.

“But the Weasleys…”

_Blood traitors,_ they didn’t say. _Poor,_ they also didn’t say.

“And how would purebloods learn of muggles?”

Harry winced.

“ _Muggle Studies?”_ It was doubtful a _pureblood_ could have laced more derision in their voice.

Harry had already heard her rant about how Muggle Studies was so— _what on earth were they thinking? All they do is focus on such a tiny sliver of muggle life; it’s_ —inadequate.

“So you were…”

“Researching cultures and why they are not included in school. Or _any literary medium.”_

“Even the pureblood authors?”

Hermione paused. She couldn’t actually _say_ whether an author was pureblood or halfblood or—

With a flick of her wrist, a page came zooming out of the mess, and another flick summoned a pen that was flying at her nib first without its cap. Her eyes had barely begun to widen before Harry—he plucked it out of the air. She blinked as the pen lay in his open palm. 

He grinned at her. _Cheeky seeker._

_But first…_ she snatched the pen from his hand and scribbled on the parchment.

“Another idea, Hermione?” He took a sip from his tea.

“Harry,” began Hermione without looking up, “can you recall a muggleborn author?” 

She didn’t consider his silence to be all that damning: she loved him but Harry wasn’t the most studious person. She put the parchment to the side, tapping the side of her cup with the pen before she continued, switching tracks. 

“At any rate, what changed?”

She had that near-manic energy about her, so Harry answered cautiously, “How do you mean?”

“What changed as a result of the war?”

His mouth opened, paused, and then shut with a click.

“More restrictions on how much power money has over the government?” she preempted him. “More checks and balances?” 

Harry frowned.

“Before the war versus after the war: what’s the difference?”

His eyes darkened. “A lot of people died.”

Hermione remembered the Sorting Ceremony of her 8th year. She remembered looking out at a sea of youthful faces and hearing the _absence_ of names. The dearth of not just Slytherins, but old names: pureblood names, proud halfblood names, blood traitor names…She hadn’t quite realized it till then, but Slytherin was made of families: of brothers and sisters and cousins and familial allies. The only house-centric family she could think of that was _not_ Slytherin was the Weasleys. Perhaps she had been too uncharitable when she had first seen the entirety of Slytherin refuse to stay and fight. How many would choose to fight their family? To stain their hands with their own blood. It was kill or be killed. It was war. 

“A lot of purebloods died,” she corrected him softly. They were already dwindling, slowly dying out; they didn’t have the numbers to survive a war. Was it arrogance? Did they not think they _could_ die out? Or lose? Or was whatever they were fighting for worth it? “The purebloods who didn’t fight for greed or power, what was worth it?”

“I don’t know if they _knew_ the risk, Hermione.”

Maybe she was giving them too much credit. But that was—wrong. It wasn’t some nebulous _them_ she was trying to understand so much as—she blinked away blue eyes.

“They were wrong to wage a war,” she affirmed aloud, spinning the pen in her hand once before placing it down on the table. “But maybe...well it points towards a few underlying issues, doesn’t it?”

Harry was sipping his tea. “Hey, Hermione?” He lowered the cup enough that she could see his smile. “Remember when you said I had a ‘saving people thing’?” She remembered. It was a terrible night dulled by time. He was smiling.

“Yes?”

“I’m not the only one.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. 

“Just remember,” he almost hesitated. “You don’t have to do everything by yourself.” 

If she didn’t know better, she’d think the boys had been comparing notes behind her back. But, it was her boys: Draco, Harry...they didn’t _have _to collude like that. They just _knew_ her. __

__“I know.”_ _

__Too bad she didn’t know who could possibly help her in this half-baked harebrained endeavor._ _

__“What brought this on, anyway?” Harry asked._ _

__Hermione hummed and placed her cup back down on the table, mind whirling through potential candidates. “Oh, I went holiday shopping with Madam Malfoy.”_ _

__Ceramic crashed to the floor._ _

__“ _Harry James Potter,_ I liked that mug!”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🙃
> 
> i'm late, and it's shit but i just want this chapter fcking _over with_ at this point.
> 
> also my characterization of harry needs so much fcking work and i got lazy/lost at some dialogue sections. my apologies y'all
> 
> 2019Aug13 minor edits, also i shifted the cut line from the author's notes back into the story


	4. a house, a home

This wasn’t typical of her. Hermione was ashamed of that. 

She stood in front of the gate of a house. Teddy’s house. The house of her best friend’s godson. But that wasn’t why shame curdled in her gut, unease stilling her hand.

Her relationship with Teddy wasn’t one that included casual house visits as the norm, which wasn’t to say she didn’t love the boy; more that she actually couldn’t think of anyone so young whom she _would_ visit just to ‘hang out.’ 

But were it that simple. 

No, Hemione _avoided_ visiting this house. And that was entirely due to its only other occupant.

Hermione Granger stood before the gate of a house.

The house of a widow. 

The house of a mother.

The house of a sister.

Three aspects of the same person...how was it she could have such _disparate_ emotional reactions to each of them?

Sympathy, respect, and...something she didn’t often consciously name. So much for a Gryffindor.

She breathed, her arm burning.

It was Harry’s idea. And despite how much safer this was than their Hogwarts’ adventures, she still felt chilled with trepidation, still taut with frenetic energy.

She breathed, and cast her mind back to green eyes.

He had broached the suggestion tentatively, leading with his and Ginny’s plans to take Teddy to a museum, “if you wanted to talk to her.”

Logically Hermione _should._ It was obvious. It made sense. It was an avenue she should by all rights pursue.

If only emotions cared a whit about logic.

But she was Hermione Jean Granger and she would _not_ be ruled by her emotions.

Which is of course, why she was frozen.

 _No._ Her hand clenched into a fist; and in a quick, jerky movement, she wrenched open the gate.

Magic tingled against her hand. _The wards._ She couldn’t turn back now.

_Keep moving._

One foot in front of the other. 

The porch light was on.

And the door opened before she could knock.

“Hermione,” she was greeted by a warm, pleasant voice, mildly tinged with surprise. The porch light highlighted the caramel in her hair. Her brown eyes were wide. _Wider than blue, narrower than black._ Hermione’s nails bit into her palm. “Come in, come in,” Andromeda Tonks neé Black bade, stepping back.

One foot in front of the other. 

The fireplace was lit.

It was warm. 

“I appreciate the company,” Andromeda began, smiling. It was small, easy, and beautiful. Hermione smiled back. It was small, weak, and shaky. 

Her stomach churned. 

Andromeda turned, leading Hermione further into the house. Hermione did not look too closely at the photos adorning the walls.

They entered the dining room. It was dominated by a table that could sit six. Andromeda gestured.

“Please, sit,” she offered. “It will be a few more minutes until lunch is ready; could I get you something to drink in the meantime?” 

Hermione looked away from the empty chairs, meeting Andromeda’s eyes, soft and brown and kind.

“Please,” Hermione croaked out. She coughed. “Tea would be fine, thank you.”

Andromeda dipped her head, smiling. She turned to head towards the kitchen. “Would you like Earl Gray, Masala Chai, Matcha Green, Oolong, or White tea?” 

Hermione recognized those names. Ginny, Neville, Harry, and Luna. Andromeda had each of their preferred teas. Hermione’s eyes closed a bit longer than a blink. 

Each of them also did not have a tendency to be early. Hermione opened her eyes. Andromeda had probably expected one of them instead. Harry must have been vague and noncommittal when he brought up the possibility of one of his friends dropping by. 

“Hermione?” Andromeda’s head popped out from beside the cupboard door, brown eyes peering at her.

Nails bit into her palm. “Earl gray please?” Hermione smiled.

Andromeda looked at her a moment before smiling back, softly, gently. Her face slipped from view as she went about the kitchen. Hermione’s fake smile fell off her face as her hand tightened.

Andromeda had a grace about her, her brown head of hair bobbing gently as she moved. _More than red, less than blonde._ Andromeda dipped into darkness for a moment.

And that was all it took.

Her hand trembled.

Her vision blurred.

 

She breathed.

 

In.

 

Hold.

 

Out.

 

Hermione blinked, ceramic clinking as Andromeda set some tea in front of her.

Another blink, another rattling breath, and Andromeda pulled out her chair noiselessly, folding into it with the elegance of royalty. She smiled when Hermione met her gaze.

Her hand relaxed. Hermione reached for the tea, grateful that her dull nails left naught but pale crescents on her palm.

The tea’s warmth seeped into her, thawing the shackles of tension. A sip of the tea washed away the poisonous brambles pricking at her mind.

 _Say something._ She looked down. “This is a beautiful tea set.” 

Hermione looked back up in time to see half of Andromeda’s lips twist upwards, her head tilted down as she regarded the teacup in her hands. She held it gently. “Nymphadora bought it for my birthday.”

Oh.

There was a chime, and Andromeda placed her cup down with nary a clink. Her now-freed hand slipped up the opposite sleeve. Hermione glimpsed a flash of wood just as the chime began to ring forth once more, though this time it was cut short. 

_A wand holster?_

Andromeda stood, elegantly unfolding as her chair slid back soundlessly. A closed smile played at her lips, highlights dancing amidst her curls at the whims of the fire.

“That would be our lunch.” Her chin dipped. “Could you help me set the table?” 

Hermione was motionless, arrested. Until Andromeda looked away to push in her chair. 

Hermione followed along, feeling as clumsy as a toddler in comparison. They ate in relative silence. It smelled delicious. And tasted like ash.

It passed all too quickly. After cleaning up, they sat back down with fresh cups of tea. Both women knew Hermione was not here _just_ for a meal.

Now, one of them had to take the plunge and dive.

“Harry mentioned you had a new side project…?” Andromeda prompted gently.

And the lion was too cowardly to do it.

Her hand clenched into a fist beneath the table.

She breathed.

Perhaps her experiences with Rita were coloring her perspective, but bringing notes to this lunch just seemed wrong.

Perhaps too, her hands would have been too unsteady to take notes.

She breathed. Where to begin?

“Do you know of a proposal for a class centered on wizarding culture?” Apparently she would start there. She was simply grateful it sounded _intelligible_ at this point.

Andromeda blinked. “Current or…?”

Hermione shook her head mutely, her throat dry.

Andromeda hummed. “I believe the Prophet reported such a proposal about two and a half decades ago. Page 11, perhaps?” It was page 13, year 1977 on—”The first Monday of August. The proposal would have implemented a new course and affected one existing course: Muggle Studies. The public knows the proposal was spearheaded by N. Malfoy and was rejected by the Board.” Her nerves settled at _facts._ That all lined up with what Hermione had already uncovered through old newspapers, but something niggled at her.

“But what do _you_ know?”

Andromeda’s eyes gleamed above her tea cup, but as it lowered, her face was neutral. “There were concerns that the proposed curriculum would be abused, so the Board stipulated that they had to find a Professor who was educated in both traditional magical culture _and_ modern muggle culture.” She shifted her grip on her cup. “Not an easy task, but they found one.” She tapped the side of her cup once, the gentle ping breaking up the cadence of her voice. 

“I know that every noble on the Board voted against the proposal, including Lucius.”

“ _What?_ ” burst out of her. Little survived the tidal wave of bewilderment that burned through her.

Andromeda calmly sipped her tea. 

“What do you know about the politics of Wizarding Britain, the parties specifically?”

“More than I did.”

“But less than you’d like.” Andy smiled, a small cheeky thing. It was familiar to Hermione; Tonks had that smile.

It faded all too quickly.

Her eyes were heavy as they gazed _past_ Hermione to a time long gone. “The closest that proposition came to passing, the political parties were, different. You could still draw the lines along Traditional, Progressive, and Moderate.” She paused here, searching Hermione’s eyes.

She nodded, confirming her familiarity with those parties. 

Andromeda sighed. “But so too could you draw the lines along Noble, Nascent, and Neutral. And the Noble party...it didn’t truly matter what the issue was at hand, whether it was a Noble-Traditional or Noble-Progressive stance, the key was it was _Noble._ The Noble party were known for abstaining, officially, from votes. They could persuade others to swing the vote to a favourable outcome as the Noble party was comprised of old, revered, and well-connected families. Noble votes were reserved for issues they would break alliances for. Alliances that have been held for generations and consummated with blood.

“There was actually a healthy mix of Traditional, Progressive, and Moderate Nobles at the time. But in the event a member of a Noble family is so thoroughly disgraced as to effectively become a leper in magical society, well, every Noble and Noble-hopeful had to oblige that.” Her eyes closed for a fraction longer than a blink. “The position was offered to one such individual, in _that_ political climate. As such, in agreeing to head the course the, blacklisted pureblood signed its death certificate before it could even truly begin.” There was a sardonic curl to her lips, a sad slant to her eyes.

Hermione leaned forward. “Why _did_ you?”

“Why do you care?” Andromeda shot back without hesitation, confirming Hermione’s hypothesis and reminding her—with those careful and calculating eyes set in a face of marble—just whom she was conversing with. Andromeda’s inflection had even changed, hearkening back to a conversation Hermione had with another. The gently twirling snow was replaced with a crackling fire, cold with warm, blue with brown—but the steel in their eyes, the challenge to rise up, that remained the same.

“It’s not right,” Hermione declared, quietly this time but no less fervently. “It’s—people _died_ for this— _cultures_ are dying; hatred brews in this festering cauldron of _ignorance_ and misunderstandings—what—how can I make it _worth_ it if I don’t fix—” Her words tripped over each other, trains of thought crashing as the maelstrom in her mind was made manifest.

Andromeda’s eyes weighed her worth. “Bloodbonds.” The heaviness in her voice chilled her. But impossibly, Hermione’s response was found, acceptable. 

She did not know if she was grateful to be found worthy. Dread pooled as silence settled. She could not voice her question beneath the weight of Andromeda’s words and those tired, _weary_ eyes.

Andromeda didn’t need her to. “Perhaps more taboo than Voldemort’s name during the war.” She tapped her teacup, a harsh, high ping ringing forth. There was a tension along her eyes and mouth, a tautness where once lay an easy peace. Hermione had nearly forgotten. “Some families—old, noble, and dark—used bloodbonds.” She took a moment, as if the mere word was a wound. “They—” her smooth, gentle voice wavered, rasping as if scraping forth from a crevice. “They hold your heart hostage.” Her eyes were unfocused, hands tightening upon her cup. “The fires of hatred, of passion, of grief, of disgust—was it yours or what they _wanted_ you to feel?” She blinked, eyes focusing back to the here as her grip and shoulders relaxed. She breathed.

Hermione scarcely dared to.

“Cissa and I were blindsided. After our marriages, our parents never used the bloodbonds. We were lulled into complacency.” Her next breath was strained. “The cost for our false freedom was...high.” Andromeda shook her head. “Pardon, I can only speculate as to why Narcissa offered the position to me, but, I accepted because of the joy that rang in my heart. I only realized too late it was not _my_ joy.”

That...that was _horrifying._ Terrible. Utterly inhumane, taboo but by the same token, not _condemned_ and disavowed. But did it not perhaps explain how _aloof_ some Purebloods were, or even how ambivalent magicals were to the enslavement of House Elves or the use of Dementors as they _took the freedom to_ feel _from their own_ children— _how_ could _they_ —

“Is that not the most likely explanation?” Hermione switched tracks. She—she’d deal with that later.

“It works under the assumption Cissa had a bloodbond to begin with.” 

Hermione blinked.

“Cissa was always our parents’ exception. They doted on her, insomuch as a Ancient and Noble House could. I had hoped that held with bloodbonds as well.” She shook her head. “But perhaps hers broke when Sirius died.”

Sirius… Her nails bit into her palm. “How are they broken?”

Andromeda’s eyes were kind, but her voice was matter-of-fact. Gratitude welled up in Hermione as her hand relaxed. “Typically, once your blood is no longer recognized as being of theirs; mine broke once I gave birth to Nymphadora. Bella had Voldemort break _her_ bloodbond, but I cannot say how.”

 _Perhaps..._ an echo of howling laughter raised goosebumps on her arms… _that was for the best. For now._

“When a bloodholder, one who controls a bloodbound, dies, their position and power typically shifts along the House succession lines. Sirius was disowned but not fully excommunicated by the time our parents died, so it is possible he became bloodholder. At any rate, with his death, there is no other bloodholder our family would accept, thus the dissolvement of the bond.”

There was a moment. Perhaps of mourning, perhaps of musing. She could not say.

But she also could not dwell. “So this proposal was attempted over two decades ago.”

Andromeda nodded. 

“Why now?”

Andromeda was too keen to _not_ know Cissa had, well, made her _aware_ of this issue frankly. “Cissa...she has never truly been the leader, at least amongst family.” Andromeda’s voice was surprisingly soft, a wistful smile upon her lips. “Not unexpected for the youngest, the most protected, the most adored...

“Perhaps too she took our parents’ intervention as a reminder of ‘her place.’” Andromeda’s head shook slightly, her wistful smile flickering into a grimace. “Conversely, perhaps the war reminded her of why she had tried in the first place.” Hermione was struck. She had finally placed the strange expression that had settled on Andromeda's face “She’s always had a brilliant mind, always saw the best in everything—that our family deemed acceptable—but shaping reality into what _she_ sees it could be…”

Andromeda had lost so much, essentially losing her family twice-over: her parents, her sisters, her cousins, her husband, her daughter, her son-in-law…

“I haven’t quite had the pleasure yet.” Andromeda smiled. And it was a smile full of faith, hope, and love.

When was the last time they spoke? As sisters and not strangers.

And yet Andromeda was _proud_ of Narcissa. Did that speak more of how extraordinary Andromeda is, or Narcissa? 

A glint entered Andromeda’s eyes. “A little birdie might have asked after how much I’ve retained from eating on Noble properties.” Oh no. “Did you—”

Oh God no. She had prayed that the Yule Ball prep would be her last such lesson— _I can learn just fine from books. And friends. No they aren’t the same thing, you arse_ —but Andromeda had already been such a fount of wisdom and perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad?

There was one thing Hermione was sure of: she _was_ going to get back at Draco for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hi.
> 
> unedited bc i binge wrote this before sleep on phone n am posting from phone.
> 
> uhh, did Not mean to go on such a long hiatus. and i think the people who tried to help me are gonna be exasperated by how i ended up writing what gave me so much issue.
> 
> Oh, shoutout to Delirious_Comfort, ShadowDianne, DisasterLesbean, and VegaWestBlack for listenin' to me ramble n poking me with love n patient impatience. Shoutout to Menzosarres whose bit in one of her fics kinda helped inspire bloodbonds. Also for yells. Thank u for ur exasperated yells.
> 
> Hit me up on Discord if you wanna chat; I am _terrible_ at responding to comments but enjoy n appreciate readin' them
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's still around; hope u enjoy (or help me help u make it more enjoyable 🙏)
> 
> PS: (after scrolling thru to spotcheck formatting) this chapter is brought to u by the word 'perhaps' ~~oml i need to edit some out~~


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